Whether he was cursed as a child or born smol,
John would make the best of the hand he’s dealt. His size wouldn’t stop him
from learning how to help others his size, becoming as close to a doctor as he
can manage to be without training, and generally being a little badass. And he certainly wouldn’t take kindly to any giants who mess with those he loves.
Maybe I’m biased because of The Hobbit,
but I imagine borrower John wielding a sharpened half-scissor broken off of a
swiss army knife x3
As everyone remembers, there was a poll last week for names for a few of the characters in the stories, both seen and unseen! After careful contemplation, we’ve found a name for one character, and are in need of help narrowing the choices down for the others.
Presenting…
Moira Wainscot!
Sam and Dean’s adopted little sister in Brothers Consulted, Moira is a few years younger than Sam and spent a lot of her time with two older brothers, making her a bit of a tomboy. This means if she finds out they’re getting in trouble, she’s not about to leave them without trying to help out, or scold them if she gets her hands on them.
Wainscot showed up a few times in the poll, and it fits her perfectly!
Now for the characters we still need some help finding names for. Kara and Christian need the perfect last name, along with their family friend Mikael. Many names were considered and discarded, as we hope to keep with the naming convention style in honor of the Borrowers series that helped blossom so many of these ideas.
To help us out, go to the poll below and answer both questions!
Timeline: A year before the first story will start
“See? What’d I tell ya? It’s perfect.”
Sam frowned, glancing from side to side in the newly-discovered ‘room’ they’d taken for themselves in the wall of one of the flats on Baker Street. It was cozy and dark, some scattered beams of light slipping through cracks in the wall. Sam brushed a hand against that wall, peering out into the flat beyond.
None of the humans that called 221B Baker Street their home were around at the moment, leaving the brothers on their own to check things out. And there was plenty to see.
So many rumors dogged this place that they’d nearly heeded their adopted family’s advice and gone elsewhere. But it was so tempting.
For two brothers, raised to make a difference, the last place they’d want to end up at was a dead end, unable to help anyone. Hell, unable to help themselves.
Dean had heard of the Consulting Detective and his doctor of a flatmate, two men who did what they wanted to do– helping others, whether they saw it that way or not.
It was an irresistible temptation, and once Dean had looked in on the events at the flat, his mind was made up. The chance to hear about cases? Solving murders? Sign him up, he’d take it. Though it might not be hunting monsters with his dad the way he’d thought he’d be doing years back before his curse, it would do.
“I suppose,” Sam said slowly, his voice lowered so any possible humans in the area would never be able to hear him. “It’s not the worst…”
Dean almost glowed at the assessment and jumped straight into his excited rambling, already prepared to make his case.
“If you check out over here, the wall’s nice and weak. We’ll be able to make a door just like at our old place. And back here,” Dean gestured, dragging Sam along with him, “there’s a straight shot to the kitchen counter. Whatever else they keep in there, they have to put food in the cabinets eventually, and that means we’ll be able to snitch it.” He waved over his head. “Old walls, plenty of passages and weak spots, lots of clutter in the main flat so anything we take goes unnoticed…”
Dean paused, and looked at Sam. “It’s perfect,” he reiterated hopefully.
Sam’s mouth thinned to a line as he considered it. “What about the ‘experiments?’ ” he asked quietly.
Dean’s eyes shot towards the kitchen with a slight wince. They both knew all about Sherlock Holmes and his ‘experiments.’ Far too much. Rumors abounded in the walls about the odd body parts Sherlock kept around, even going so far as to keep them in the fridge or microwave. It was right out of a horror movie, if the man got his hands on any people like that.
“We’re not gonna get caught,” Dean affirmed. “We’re some of the best around, and you know it. With your sense and my knack… we can make this work.”
Sam was caught off guard by the sudden pleading in Dean’s eyes. It wasn’t often that Dean tried turning his own puppy eyes on his younger brother, since they rarely worked so well but this time…
Timeline: After moving into 221B Baker Street and before the first story
Sam ran along the tabletop, his pulse thudding in his ears as he went.
Another day, another supply run.
Of course, this time was a little different. With Dean’s odd ability, they’d been able to track down some pencil lead for Sam to use to write with, always a hard-to-find commodity even here, in a flat with belongings strewn haphazardly about and a vast treasure trove of supplies for people Sam and Dean’s size.
It was a bit of a risk, with the humans still in the building, but Sam didn’t want to risk the snapped lead vanishing when one of them cleaned up. He’d been able to find enough scraps of paper to form a haphazard journal, but needed something to write with. His old bit of lead was nearly ground to dust.
Two shards of the tip of a pencil were nestled in his leather satchel, bouncing against his side as he ran. Sam made it to the edge of the table, peering down at the floor to see where Dean was, waiting for him to get down. They couldn’t afford them both out in such an exposed place, so Dean, the weaker climber, stayed on the ground.
Instead of using his hook and thread to climb with, Sam took advantage of the chair that was leaning against the edge of the table. A black jacket was draped overtop the chair, and offered Sam more than enough handholds to get himself to the floor. He cautiously began to pick his way down the fabric, occasionally glancing at his surroundings.
Just then, the stairs between the flat and the one upstairs creaked as John descended from his room, tugging on a jumper as he went. He needed to go to the bank, run to town for a few things, and was considering a stop at the pub later that night for a well-needed drink.
And with Sherlock shut in the bathroom preoccupied with his bioluminescent bacteria cultures, without a case on, John had a rare opportunity to slip away.
John was straightening his short, sandy hair, mussed by his jumper, as he entered the main area of the flat.
Sam stiffened, and Dean didn’t need his signal to know it was time to dive for cover. The older Winchester vanished behind one of the sturdy table legs as the floor shook under his boots, unable to do anything to help Sam out without taking an even greater risk of John spotting them.
With his knack tingling a sharp warning, Sam looked up at the table. It was too far up for him to risk climbing back up and searching for a hiding spot. The floor was too far down to reach in time if John decided to come into the kitchen.
Which left him one option.
Sam let go of the fabric he was clinging too, plummeting straight down into the dark folds of the pocket which yawned open beneath his feet.
John paused at the door when he noticed his coat wasn’t on its usual hook. It wasn’t on his claimed armchair in the living room either, and that’s when he remembered he’d left it in the kitchen. With a sigh, he rounded the corner and approached the table, never spotting the small shadow that ducked behind a table leg, only leaning out slightly to keep an eye on him.
He bent to retrieve his gloves from the pocket first, without even the slightest suspicion that there was someone inside, dodging fingers longer than he was tall.
Which, from the second John’s hand entered the pocket, Sam was.
His first warning was the cold shock that ran down his back from his knack. Sam’s eyes widened in the darkness as he saw a shadow fall over the light that leaked in from the kitchen. Hide. He had to hide better.
In the pocket with him was two black gloves, providing the cushioning for his landing. Without them in the way, Sam would have tumbled all the way to the bottom of the pocket. With John so close, that’s what Sam needed. More distance.
Squirming around the gloves, Sam put them between him and the opening of the pocket. Long fingers reached in, groping around for the gloves that were stuffed inside for safekeeping. Sam spotted them, and his breathing sped up.
Hands!
Memories of his first week cursed came flooding back, and his desperation to escape John’s grasp only grew. Sam twisted around, kicking the gloves further up in the pocket interior while he slid all the way to the bottom. His first experience with hands like that, his shoulder was dislocated. The last thing he wanted to do was relive that, and it was all made worse by the knowledge that John was a doctor, more than qualified to dissect either brother if he got them into his hands. All the experiments around the flat always drove that truth home to them when they were out.
Finding the gloves right away, John’s fingers dove straight down to achieve a secure grip on them. A knuckle brushed against Sam’s jacket, the contact going unnoticed by the human as something else caught his eye.
“Dammit, Sherlock…” muttered the doctor, straightening and placing the gloves on the table.
“I said, keep your cultures off my things!” John strode toward Sherlock’s work table, delicately plucking petri dishes from his laptop, which his flatmate had a habit of commandeering. With a huff, John tucked the computer under his arm and rushed it upstairs to scrub it and lock it in his bedroom before he found anything sprouting on his keyboard.
Sam couldn’t believe his eyes. He remained flattened at the bottom of the pocket, listening to the distant footsteps as they thudded up the stairs of the flat, waiting to be sure that John was actually leaving, even after touching Sam’s jacket, the closest he’d come to a human in years. He’d thought it was all over right then, the hand would shift position, making him tumble into the human’s grasp and sealed into a fist by fingers stronger than his entire body.
Instead, John had pulled away and stalked across the flat yelling at Sherlock, and Sam was wasting his opportunity to escape thinking about it.
Quickly pulling himself to his feet, Sam scaled out of the pocket in record time. Dean was down by the table leg, staying close to cover in case the human came back. He didn’t have Sam’s uncanny knack of knowing when someone was about to come into the room and spot them, leaving him more vulnerable than Sam.
Not that it was doing Sam any good today.
Sam used the thick threads of the jacket to climb down, dropping the last few inches. His arms continued trembling from the close call, shaken. Dean’s arm was on his back to keep him steady the moment he got down, but seconds later they were running across the floor.
It was time to get out of sight for the rest of the day. Their luck had been pushed the the limit enough that week.
Timeline: Before the first story, after the brothers move into 221B Baker Street
It was just another supply run.
There was no reason for either brother to think this morning would be any different from any other.
It was becoming their regular routine; wake up early, grab some food from the cabinets, keep an eye on Sherlock and John while they were up and about. Midafternoon to evening was a good time to catch some sleep with the humans at their most active, and during the night the brothers would pick through the main room of the flat, reading up on the materials Sherlock scattered about his latest cases and grabbing extra supplies for the supply room they were building across the fireplace from their home.
It had only been a week since officially moving in, but so far the schedule was holding out. There were a few hiccups along the way while learning and they had to have chosen the most erratic humans around, but the brothers remained hidden against all odds.
“Anythin?’ “ Dean hissed at Sam as he hesitantly pushed at the entrance into the cupboard.
Sam paused, his eyes unfocused as he concentrated on the strange knack he had. Without that ability, moving into this particular flat would be ill-advised. Between the two of them and their unusual abilities, it became worth the risk.
“Nothing,” Sam confirmed, and Dean climbed into the cupboard to begin their raid.
Throughout the last week, Dean had begun the lengthy process of creating entrances where they were most needed. It was a skill he’d picked up like a natural, mechanically inclined the way he was. Mapping out the walls was accomplished the first few days, and Sam had created an intricate diagram using some scrap paper and the broken tip of a pencil Dean had tracked down for them to use. On that diagram he had marked off the most desired entrances into the main area where the humans lived, and was slowly checking them off as they were completed.
The entrance into the cupboards for food being one of the most important ones to make.
Now, they could slip right in under the humans’ noses and get what they needed to survive. It wasn’t much compared to what someone normal sized might eat, but they’d learned harsh lessons early in life that they weren’t seen as people. No handouts would ever come their way.
Sam brightened up at the sight of a new box of cereal, the top already opened. “It’s fresh!” he chirped brightly, letting his hand fall to his hook in preparation.
Dean nodded. “I’ll keep watch,” he said, stationing himself between the teabags and the cereal so he could see the front of the cabinet in case it was opened.
Sam tossed his hook into the air. His aim was not as good as his older brother’s, but the three prongs made it easier to get a catch, and the sturdy weight of the hook wasn’t a deterrent with his natural strength. It caught on a flap, and Sam tugged it questioningly. With it holding fast, he started to climb up the side of the box with his boots braced against the side and his grip tight on the black thread, the weight of the cereal inside preventing it from tipping over on him.
Reaching the top quickly, Sam balanced uncertainly on the uneven ground. It took some doing, but he was able to work one hand under the top flap and tug it open, revealing the food inside. With his satchel empty, there was plenty of room to stash the food, and no way for John or Sherlock to know some was missing unless they weighed the cereal by gram as they ate.
The humans in the flat were odd, but not quite that odd.
Sam balanced with one boot on either side of the box and started to scoop up the cereal one piece at a time, filling them into his bag as he went, his position precarious.
John was especially groggy as he entered the kitchen. Not only had the night out with his friend Mike Stamford gone on for longer than he’d meant it to, but the storm that followed made John’s old bullet wound act up, disrupting his sleep for the rest of the night.
The doctor rubbed absently at his left shoulder, the gloomy morning still giving him an ache there. Ordinarily he’d get something for breakfast started before getting his tea, but ever since he’d moved in with Sherlock Holmes not so long ago, John found his schedule being arbitrarily changed– mostly his sleep schedule; John was certain he still hadn’t recovered from that late night filing through a pair of dead men’s books– and his habits shifting. Right now, he was in dire need of caffeine.
There was water left in the kettle, so all he had to do was plug it in and push down the little switch to get the heat started. Rubbing his eyes in attempt to get rid of that heavy feeling in his lids, John fumbled at the cupboard door and groped blindly for a teabag.
The footsteps weren’t unexpected, but what was unexpected was the lack of reaction in Sam’s knack. Light washed over the tiny pair as the wide door swung open.
Both brothers’ froze.
Unbelievably, considering how Sam was perched on top of the cereal box, one boot braced on either side, and how Dean was frozen right out in the open, John Watson didn’t notice them.
The oblivious human wasn’t even looking in their direction as his hand stretched out, blindly groping past the box Sam was stuck on.
Dean snapped out of his shock, stumbling away from the grasping fingers that were longer than he was tall. As he backed away, his hand fell on another of the boxes shoved in there by Sherlock.
Teabags.
Saying a prayer under his breath, Dean grabbed a teabag from the box and shoved it in the direction of John’s huge hand. All he could do was hope that if John got what he was looking for, the human doctor wouldn’t glance into the cupboard and spot Sam, who had no fast way down from the box unless he fell inside with the cereal.
John’s fingers latched onto the thin material of the teabag, curling into a loose fist around it as the hand retreated. With a half-yawn, half-groan, John let the cupboard door fall closed and dropped heavily into a chair while he waited for the kettle to boil.
As the door slammed shut, Sam sucked in a breath. John hadn’t noticed. Sam was right there, perched on a box of cereal, and he hadn’t seen a thing.
How?
While the sounds of John peacefully preparing his cup of tea filtered into the cupboard, Dean tilted his head back and waved for Sam’s attention. Catching Dean’s meaning, Sam inched his way backwards until he reached where his hook was lodged, and scaled down the box.
Time to get out of the cupboard before their luck ran short.
We’re so glad you’re excited for BC! (We’re looking forward to it just as much!)
We’ve actually already written out what happens after that part, and it’ll play a big part of their interactions between each other. If you take a peek at the #tsotf, you’ll see everything we’ve released about it since the official sneak peek.
Dean held Sam close to him, looking up at the woman with dried tears clinging to his eyelashes. Twenty-four hours. Just twenty-four hours since they’d woken up like this, and there was a small light in the dark.
He couldn’t quite remember everything. It was all a blur before waking up in the hot, humid darkness. A woman, breaking into their room and attacking them. Dean could do nothing to keep her from his little brother. She’d pinned him effortlessly to the wall, without once touching him, forcing him to watch his little brother vanish into a white light.
And then doing the same for him, the world going black as the white light surrounded him.
Now, they’d escaped from her, but nothing was the way they remembered.
Motel rooms were larger than sweeping cathedrals. A football stadium could fit on the two beds. People were giants, the remote for the TV was unmovable, and Dean was scared.
Nothing, not his dad’s training, not Bobby’s stories, nothing, could have prepared him for this.
The woman stared down at him, her eyes widening in slight surprise. Dean could see so much detail in her face, he knew the moment her pupils dilated. He could smell the sickly-sweet scent of wine on her breath when her mouth parted.
That was all the warning they got.
Her hand swept out, long fingers curling around the two tiny children. Sam cried out in surprise as Dean did his best to block her attack, but standing under four inches tall meant there was no way for him to stop her.
A fist closed harshly around them, and Sam’s cries went from surprised to pained, and then stopped.
Dean sucked in a breath as the motel room nightstand vanished under their feet, the height forgotten in the wake of worry for his brother.
What did she do to Sammy?
“Please,” Dean begged. “We just need help…”
She lifted them up, her hand opening when held in front of her eyes. There was no warmth in those eyes as she scanned every one of the brothers’ very few inches.
“Wonderful…” she breathed, that sickly smell hitting Dean in a wave. He almost retched.
Containing his reaction, Dean glared at the woman as he cradled his brother in his arms. “What did you do?” he shouted angrily, Sam’s arm limp and hanging from the socket in an unnatural position.
“Sweetie,” she said in a condescending voice, “you’re just a toy. A possession. You should remember that the next time you talk back.”
She turned from the nightstand, the long fingers curling around the two boys as she rifled through the pockets of a jacket and withdrew a phone. A red-painted fingernail winked in the light at them as it tapped out a message.
The circumstances in Hounds of Baskerville were a little different than in BC. When Sherlock has his big freak-out, he’s been drugged and is much more high-strung than he normally would be. Though, that’s not to say that he handles that topic perfectly.
Sherlock’s entire reality is built on science and logic, what he can see and feel and prove. He’d refuse to believe in the supernatural unless it was right in front of him. He can’t exactly deny the existence of the bitty bros, but he will struggle with the idea of witches and a curse. We’ll just have to wait and see if he runs into ghosts and vampires to gauge his reaction.
The shouts might as well have fallen on deaf ears for all the good they did. Dean glared out the bars of the cage he and Sam were trapped in, wanting nothing more than to sink his silver dagger into something.
Anything.
But no. They stayed stuck, with no way out and no way to find help. The woman whose rough handling had injured Sam casually thumbed through a magazine, waiting with her captives and ignoring them as though they didn’t exist.
Dean supposed he should be grateful they still even had their knives. After escaping that hexbag and finding their way to other humans, the brothers had tried to find help to reunite them with their father. Instead, they’d found capture. It had happened so fast that he never got a chance to draw his blade before he was tossed in a cage next to Sam.
Sam, who was out cold, one arm hanging unnaturally.
“Okay, Sammy,” Dean said, lowering his voice and trying to hide his desperation. “I’m gonna take care of this for you. Nice and easy, just like dad always says, right?”
Sam didn’t respond, his breathing ragged. Dean prayed the woman hadn’t hurt his brother when grabbing him from the ground. She was so big. There was no telling what kind of damage she could do to them.
Dean took hold of Sam’s arm and said a quick prayer under his breath. “One, two–“
Before saying “Three,” he quickly pulled, the arm shifting back into the socket. Sam shrieked, the ten year old’s body writhing in place as the arm took its rightful place. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, trying to comfort the younger child while glaring at the woman outside, tears clinging to his eyelashes.
Brothers Apart 